


Just a lovely Christmas

by my_thestral



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_thestral/pseuds/my_thestral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hugo Weasley, age 11, knows what he wants in life. It's something short and sweet and has brilliant green eyes. Only... he might be a bit late...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a lovely Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a [Harry/Ron Holidays](http://hrholidays.livejournal.com/) in cooperation with a super-talented Daleah, who contributed some amazing [art](http://daleah.livejournal.com/41845.html#cutid2) for the fest. Many thanks to my beta, HTML guru and a one-person-support-team [Praevarus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Praevarus) for all her input and useful suggestions. You'd be laughing at me without her. :) Not my usual pairing, so beware, but I promised some Ron/Harry to one of my readers and here it comes...
> 
> Disclaimer: The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to the wonderful mind of JK Rowling, I play for fun, not profit...

The day an 11-year-old Hugo Weasley learned he could not have everything in life was the day when he found out what he truly wanted.

As he lay on the couch in front of a fireplace at the Burrow after a magnificent Christmas eve dinner Grandma Molly had once again conjured, he felt a bit drowsy from having his stomach pleasantly full and if someone was to ask him to describe how he felt, he would have come up with  _“compl_ _etely happy_ ”. He might have had his mother's brain, but when it came to words, Hugo Weasley was his father's son.

“For Merlin's sake, woman, just... keep it simple,” his father would sometimes mumble into his chin when Hugo's mother scolded him with elaborate sentences full of complicated words for one or the other of the countless mistakes he seemed to possess in her eyes.

But to Hugo Weasley, his dad was perfect. Hugo simply adored his big, loving father, who never missed a chance to hug him, ask him about his day, challenge him to a game of Quidditch or teach him a small million of Wizard’s Chess strategies while rambling about everything and nothing.

Dad felt like… home. It was as simple as that and perhaps this was one of the reasons why Ron Weasley never rose to greatness. Much to the irritation of everyone around him, even his career as an Auror was short-lived. He simply came home one day a couple of years back, looked his wife straight in the face with his big blue eyes and said:

“I've had it with all the blood and gore, Mione. I don't want to do this any longer. I'm starting with George on Monday, it'll be better for all of us.”

Hugo’s mother already opened her mouth to launch a verbal avalanche of accusations and lamenting upon this  _terrible loser_ of her husband, but this one time Hugo’s dad stood his ground. He wouldn’t explode like he usually did under her provocation; he merely straightened up, looked down at her from his impressive height and said quietly, but adamantly:

“ _Don’t_ , Mione, just… don’t. It’s either that or lose me. There’s at least  _one_  person who wouldn’t mind.”

Hugo didn’t know and never found out who that mysterious one person was, but as fierce and ambitious as his mother was, she became uncharacteristically quiet after that statement and she never brought the subject up for discussion – or quarrel – again. She simply let it slide.

But Uncle Harry didn't. Now here's a thing or two one needs to know about Hugo's Uncle Harry. He was simply the best, the kindest, the bravest and the loveliest uncle that ever lived. He was also the loudest, most persistent, most viciously defiant beast when he wanted something. He had literally killed a very mighty wizard once, for Merlin's sake, by simply refusing to die.  _Twice_ . And he put all his magic and passion in trying to persuade his father to change his mind. He had flattered him - “ _best Auror this department has ever had!_ ” - and scolded him like a child - “ _you bloody idiot, leaving me like this - without a warning! - to be paired off with one of those fools I can't stand!_ ” - and in the end Hugo had overheard him begging quietly  _“pl_ _ease, Ron, don't leave me..._ ” – but try as he might, nothing worked.

Hugo’s father was a Weasley and a proper one at that. According to Hugo's despairing mother, his picture was under “ _pigheaded, stubborn ox_ ” in the Dictionary. Uncle Harry might as well have tried to teach a Whomping Willow to waltz to the tune of Weird Sisters for all the effect his raging about had – his father simply looked at his best mate straight in the eye and said quietly:

“I can't, Harry. You know why. Please let it go. Let  _me_  go.”

And after those words Uncle Harry went just as strangely quiet as Hugo’s mother had. And very, very pale. Hugo had never seen him like this before, actually. He looked positively  _crushed_. And it scared Hugo. Because, you see, Hugo had the biggest, most impossible crush on Uncle Harry. Of course he wasn't going to tell anyone that - he might have been short of words, but he wasn't daft! It was his one big secret, the one that made him blush and grin like an idiot whenever Uncle Harry greeted him with a big smile, ruffled his violently red hair and swung his arm across his shoulders, pressing him closer as if they were best mates: “And how’s my favourite nephew today?”

Those were the best moments of Hugo’s day and he‘d missed them terribly since he had been shipped off to Hogwarts in September – but he told himself it didn’t matter. In that, as well as in most other things, he was his father's son: what Hugo Weasley wanted, Hugo Weasley got. Not with many words, not with hysterical tears, like his sister Rosie often did. He just went and made things happen, usually stunning the adults  _stupid_.

So he decided that he would just go and marry Uncle Harry one day. And being as methodical as his mother, he had it all worked out. They weren't related by blood. There were no legal obstacles to them marrying as soon as Uncle Harry divorced Aunt Ginny. They weren't a very good couple anyway, everybody knew that, and Hugo's best friend, their middle child Albus, often complained they fought until his ears hurt. Strangely enough, it mostly had to do with Hugo's father.

“Mom thinks our dads spend too much time together,” Albie informed Hugo one day. “Dad drops by Uncle George’s shop every day to have lunch with your dad and she keeps on shouting at him that they’re no longer at Hogwarts together, that he should grow up and that there are things he should be doing with her rather than with your dad... but frankly, I can’t blame him! Who in their right mind would trade Uncle Ron’s company for all that screeching and nagging?! She's practically a Howler in human form! Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, but she gets kind of mental sometimes and your dad’s way cool!” he explained rather matter-of-factly, solidifying Hugo’s conviction that this, indeed, was a relationship not worth saving.

Of course, there was a small matter of marriages between wizards being  _non-existent_ , but Hugo was sure he could cross that bridge when he got to it. He only needed to bring it to the attention of his astute mother, who was forever on a Crusade for this or that creature’s rights – and the issue was as good as solved. His mother had a way with these things.

And of course, he had to wait a few more years. Uncle Harry would never marry a person under age, no matter how fond of them he had become. But Hugo could wait. Time was something he had in abundance. Patience...  _not so much_. But he was only entering puberty and unlike his 15-year-old cousin Jamie, who was almost banned from Hogwarts for snogging anything with a pulse, the hormones had yet to strike Hugo with full force, so he could deal with it... for now.

For now Hugo Weasley was perfectly happy observing Uncle Harry pop his slender figure next to his dad on a couch opposite to the one where he was resting and he continued to watch his two favourite people on this planet engage in a playful conversation regarding the splendid food, wonderful presents, George’s new inventions, Quidditch and all that brutal weather they were getting this winter. Aunt Ginny was covering the finals of the Australian National Quidditch League and couldn't really make it home on time and Hugo's mother had already left for bed, knackered as she always was from her 16-hour working days. The rest of the vivacious household was also slowly retiring and it seemed as if it was soon going to be just his dad and Uncle Harry and they were as relaxed and laid-back as they could be; the frequent chuckles and barely hushed fits of laughter bore testimony to that. Hugo loved them both and he was happy.

He must have dozed off in the warm cosiness of the fire and when he woke up next, the flames in the fireplace were crackling a little lower, casting subdued, soft shadows across the nearly abandoned living room and someone had tucked a blanked around him. The only two people left in the living room next to him were indeed his dad and Uncle Harry, each cradling their respective glass of Firewhiskey and still deeply involved in a conversation, carried on in a hushed voice. They were both too focused on the subject of their interest – and each other – to notice that Hugo had woken up, so he had a few precious moments to observe them completely unnoticed. Uncle Harry’s pale cheeks boasted an uncharacteristic red tinge and Hugo’s father had just thrown his head back in a soft chuckle, exposing the long, strong neck and spilling the silken, fiery hair into a pool of red brilliance on top of the couch.

And just like that, Uncle Harry’s arm leisurely sneaked behind the back of the couch and the bony fingers picked up the loose strands of his father's long lustrous hair and began casually toying with them. His father’s laughter died softly with a barely audible sigh and Hugo watched his breath hitch and his blue eyes light up with a dark brilliant lustre he had never seen before. As young as he was, Hugo had no name for the tension, suddenly stretching the air and when he followed Uncle Harry’s oddly hungry eyes lingering on his dad’s face, he noticed for the first time what a handsome man his father still was.

Ron Weasley was carrying his 38 years extremely well. What was once a nervous lanky boy with flailing limbs, too awkward for his own good, was now a terrifically tall, beautifully muscled self-assured man with piercing blue eyes and a most adorable set of freckles, accompanied by a river of long silken bright red hair he usually plaited and a ridiculously endearing smile. Hugo had yet to meet someone who didn’t like his dad and the general opinion among the ladies was, that Hermione Granger had  _really_  done well for herself. But Hugo had never known his father to pay any attention to any other woman other than his mom and, naturally, he assumed that it was because after all these years he still found her too fascinating. But there could have been  _another_  explanation...

As in a trance Hugo watched Uncle Harry sink his slim fingers further in the glossy warm mass of his dad’s hair and from a small surrendered moan and an abandoned “ _Harry_...” Hugo could guess they were undoing his father by the seams he couldn’t quite fathom.

Finally, like in a lingering slow shot, his father turned his head to look into the legendary green eyes, positively drinking in his manly beauty, and when the green clashed with the blue, Harry Potter whispered in a shaky voice: “Ron...  _please_...”

“Harry... I...” Ron’s soft voice, hiding a strange quiver underneath, was interrupted by an almost frantic whisper by the raven-haired man by his side:

“ _Please_ , Ron... just this once... it’s been years... and I’m dying for it... gods, man... you’re killing me... you have no idea... please... just...”

“Yes,” whispered Hugo's dad out of the blue and then it all happened so quickly it was almost like magic before Hugo’s astonished eyes. People were always talking about Uncle Harry’s Seeker reflexes and finally Hugo understood what they meant when Harry Potter, the very man he had the biggest crush on, moved like lightning in one liquid motion to straddle his father’s lap and sunk onto his dad's mouth as if he needed to save his own life.

Hugo had never seen two men kiss, at least not in real life, and he stared with eyes wide-opened when his father's big hand first crawled onto the small of his lover's back to secure him and as the kissing became more frantic and desperate and the small moans and sighs they were making no longer qualified as “quiet”, his other hand sunk into Uncle Harry's crazy untameable hair and held him together, so Ron Weasley could kiss his best mate thoroughly; kiss him good and proper, kiss him for all the years he had given him up, kiss him for lost time, missed opportunities, kiss him for dear life, kiss him out of crushed, neglected, stubborn love he never held for any other person.

And when Uncle Harry came up for air, Hugo had never seen him so... out of it. His eyes were lit up like green torches and he held onto his father for dear life, literally blabbing.

“Ron... oh, fucking-... god, Ron...  _godandbloodyhell_ , man, I forgot... how could we ever give this up? Need you, need more... need...”

“Not here,” Hugo's father interrupted, panting between a kiss and a pained moan. “Hugo...”

“Oh,  _bloody hell_... Yes... yes, of course... let me just...”

And with these words Harry Potter disapparated himself and the man he was clinging onto with his strained starved body and his raging heart and Hugo Weasley was left alone, numb, with his mouth still unhinged in shock, unable to grasp this brand new world, this terrifying new reality.

~

They didn't go very far, Harry would have splinched them to the bone, if he was required to think anywhere beyond Ron's old bedroom, barely ever used these days. Years of pent-up frustration crashed out of him in one blow when he knocked Ron backwards straight on top of his childhood bed and took his prize. This, here, was  _his_  and he finally got to claim it. This was  _his_  Ron, the man who should have been  _his_ , should have picked  _him_ , but chose a family instead and left him all but destroyed with a broken heart oozing crazy impossible love and hopeless never-ending longing.

So close all this time – and yet so far... But now it was time for payback, now Harry was going to get back what he had almost given up hope of ever getting a hold of again, and Ron Weasley was good for the payment.

Gods, how could he forget the sweet, tinged-a-tad-bitter taste of his mouth, like a mixture of sugar and exotic spice and its undoing warmth and softness... or the shy silken tongue that somehow cleverly found a way into his mouth and licked him like a flame from head to toe. His cry of need was embarrassingly loud and Harry Potter couldn't remember if he‘d bothered to lock and secure the door and throw all those wonderful privacy charms over the room, because it didn't fucking matter as long as he had Ron Weasley's hot body writhing underneath him, writing desire and passion all over him with his ungodly mouth and whispered filthy words of lust and love.

But Harry himself  _had_  no words apart from the broken sounds of urgent need and years of yearning that came too close to a sob. For all his aggression and possessiveness it was really Ron who was taking him apart and putting him back together by mirroring his desire and answering all his long-ignored pleas with his own passion and bruising greed, with his own violent determination to mark him as his own and to belong.

The supple soft mouth found a way onto his neck and when Ron sunk his teeth in and viciously sucked on its tendons as if determined to draw blood, Harry yelped in surrender and almost blew his load, cause there he was, his beautiful beloved redhead, making every single one of his fantasies come to life as if he had written them himself – and there was only so much Harry's tortured bursting body and aching heart could take.

“Take me,” he pleaded with him in a harsh breathless voice, not really knowing what he wanted Ron to do, because it was close to not mattering at all, as long as he didn't stop and leave him screaming for his touch. “Goddammit, Ron, take me,” he repeated with heated urgency and let out a cry when his beautiful best mate flipped him over roughly and took charge like he always used to do.

And when the calloused fingers disappeared under his crumpled shirt to discover his nipples and found them hard already, God himself couldn’t have stopped Harry from unravelling. All these months, years now, and he still knew him that well... he still remembered. There was hardly anything in this world that could bring Harry Potter this close to coming within seconds. God, how could he forget this... how could he let it go? They used to do this all the time; Ron was the one who made him addicted to having his nipples licked and toyed with and it used to be the redhead’s favourite sport to make him come by playing with them.

But not tonight.

Tonight Ron Weasley came for more; he wasn’t surrendering this magical night for anything short of everything, every last bit of the magic Harry had to give. He straddled his lap and slowly, deliberately rubbed their clad erections together, hissing softly into Harry’s loud moan. Then he lifted his upper body like a snake about to strike and removed his Weasley jumper in a liquid practised motion of a man who was used to the rush of passionate moments.

He didn’t bother removing anything of Harry’s nicely; still hovering just above his painfully strained shaft he simply tore at all the buttons and crumpled fabric until the man underneath him lay gloriously naked, covered only in a thin sheet of sweat and panting... Then, and only then the redhead growled with dangerous satisfaction and slithered down the lean trained body of Head Auror Potter in search of his next tender target.

He knew this body so well, perhaps better than his own, and he used to  _own_  it; own every bit of soft skin, glistening like wet marble in the moonlight, every taut muscle trembling in anticipation and he felt like a fool for ever leaving it behind. He could make him fall apart, he  _knew_  he could, he knew how and he was going to, no looking back, no regrets. Tonight Harry Potter was his to have and to own and to fuck into screaming and to make love to until his fucking heart exploded and that’s what he came here to do and fuck all, thank you very much.

So he launched a slow strategic attack at his hipbones, laving them lovingly with his tongue, over and over again, mouthing at one and then the other; the generous lips leaving a wet trail all over his flat stomach as they travelled in anything but straight line to devour the object of their fascination at the other side of his body. He licked playfully at his bellybutton and pushed his nose right into the carpet of coarse black hairs to inhale the smell of Harry, his Harry, the Harry he had missed like crazy and could never completely let go.

The uncontrollable gibberish coming out of Harry's mouth was music to his ears and, Merlin, how he always loved this, loved reducing the great Harry Potter, his sweet shy Harry into this utter stuttering, pleading mess that wanted nothing else than to be fucked insanely, to surrender and to be claimed. Hard, leaking shaft was waiting for him; dark, swollen and madly inviting with the warm earthy scent and the little pearly drops gathered at the top like a crown and he ignored it as long as he could; ignored Harry’s frantic babbling and hissed cursing, soft keening and outright pleading; ignored it to prolong and thoroughly enjoy this dangerous addictive game he had been missing out on for so long... Just a little longer, just a long decadent long lick here, under his stiffening balls, and a trail of bruising debauched kisses there, over the sensitive patch of fine-haired skin leading to his navel, perhaps a gentle bite at the pit of his trembling thigh to ruin that transparent milky skin,  _oh, yeah_... that’s the way this game was played, he still remembered, he still knew how.

But it was game over for him when Harry’s shaky hard fingers found their way into the warm mass of his glossy hair and he heard him all but growl in a breathless voice he could never deny anything:

“More, you fucking tease... gods, more, Ron... don’t make me wait... please, baby... don’t...  _ohmotheroffuckinggod_ , yessss!”

He might have woken up the house with his loud yelp of surrender, but when Ron’s beautiful sinful mouth, swollen from its playful ministrations, opened like a slut’s cave and sunk down his shaft, taking him all in, from the pearly top to the engorged bottom – Harry Potter was beyond caring. He was lost. Lost in lust as he got to fuck the beloved velvety mouth with abandon; lost in his own screams when he was finally getting a full dose of what he’s been denied for years; lost in crazy pulsating love spilling across the edge of his heart with every crazed push, desperate wet kiss and barely muffled confession of the terrible emotion that should have no room between them. When Ron’s mouth closed tightly around the bursting spongy head of his shaft and feasted on it teasingly while that god-sent tongue from hell swept wetly, needily across his slit, over and over again, he lost it completely.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Ron... Need you... you fucking beast, need you now... need to feel... harder.... god, yes... baby... so fucking good... that incredible slutty mouth of yours... How could you make me give it up... never again... Christ and Merlin, Ron... you hear me?!... Never again, I’m never giving this... you... up again... don’t make me... Fuck, baby, so close... don’t want to come like this... no... not tonight... I need you... need the whole of you tonight, you bastard... right inside of me, baby... oh, god, love...”

Just the sight of Ron's massive purple shaft Harry had been wanking to ever since he had first caught a glimpse of after the Quidditch practice in 5th year, almost blew off the lid of his restraint. He heard himself keen like a bitch in heat and then that redheaded bastard had the audacity to take his leaking rock-hard cock into the big palm of his hand and began playing with it, slowly, seductively... The redhead bit his lip and watched Harry intently through narrowed blue eyes, his hand travelling down the length of engorged prick, tight, with deliberate abandon as if he wanted to tell Harry, _“yeah, take a good look at it, I'm going to fuck you with that, Potter!_ ” It was all too much for Harry.

“Ron,” he whimpered and his voice was embarrassingly close to begging. “Please, Ron... need...” And then finally, fucking god,  _finally!_ , his blue-eyed god took pity of him and Harry saw his lips move in a charm he recognised all too well. And he couldn't stop himself any longer:

“Merlin, yessss....oh, you still know that... just saying the words sometimes has me hard and waiting... waiting for you, Ron... Merlin, don’t torture me like that, you redheaded demon... push them inside me, I can take it, you know I can....  _ohgodohgodohgod_ , just like that... don’t you dare touch that spot, you fucking... no, Ron,  _ohChristplease_  don’t... I only... only want you inside...  _yes_!!!... oh, fuckinggodyes!!!... harder, baby... go harder... you need to break me... break me tonight, Ron... oh, holy fuck, you fucking monster... don’t... don’t you dare stop... Ron... please... just...”

“Fuck... you... you fucking... gorgeous... addictive little bitch, Potter...”

The redhead’s voice was rough with all the impossible tension and held back feeling and as always, Ron Weasley was lost for words. His eyes were ablaze with infernal blue flame and his gaze, staring straight down into the bottom of Harry’s soul, was so intense, as if he hoped to split him open by its starry brilliance alone, as if he wanted nothing but to crack him down to the very core and make him fall apart. He needed it, needed his Harry, needed him to say it, say what was that thing between them, needed his words to heal and to release him. It had been years...  _mounting_  for years... and now it came to this and this was their moment, the only moment they had. And he had no other language but these crude words that came with sex and had no power to tell Harry how he really felt.

“Merlin, man... so tight... have you been saving it for me, then?... that special spot of yours, that makes you see stars... and scream yourself raw... it’s mine, you beautiful green-eyed bastard, you hear me?! That spot is mine, mine alone, it says Ron in there with  _big fucking letters_  and your screams, babe... and I’m going to  _ruin it_  if I care to... ruin it for you, love... I’m going to shove right into it, like this... and another time... and another... one for every letter of my name, you needy, randy motherfucker... you never get enough, do you?... You never get any without me... Well, you insatiable little Ron-whore, I’ll fucking ram into your greedy tight hole until you beg me to stop and fucking tell me what I need to hear, gorgeous, or I’ll never let you come...  _never_... d’you hear me, beautiful... Harry, love... please... fuck...”

“Need... you... Ron... Fuck me, fuck me, love...”

Ron could feel the impossible tension building and swirling at the bottom of his cock like a chained up dragon, frustrating him into madness with that incredible bursting feeling just under the edge of pain as if he was going to explode right into the fucking Heaven anytime now. Only Harry had the power to do this to him. He’d never come in his life without thinking of him. He made both his babies thinking of him. He craved him, missed him, loved him... and he had given him up. Never again, he knew. In that moment he realized he had changed their world by saying a drunken, possessed “ _yes_ ” straight into Harry’s unforgettable eyes and he knew he could never go back to the way things were before this magical evening.

And the simple words that were never going to be enough, but were all he had, came out of their own accord:

“Love you, Harry, my Harry,” he yelped through a pained and breathless roar and in one last magnificent shove he was coming and coming and shuddering and giving his all buried deep inside his green-eyed god, locked into his own private heavenhell. And he took Harry with him.

The raven-haired man had pulled him down to eat every last broken word, every ungodly sound straight out of his mouth and when the words “ _my Harry_ ” touched his lips with a wet hot breath, this was it, this was what he was born to be, and those words shattered to pieces what little was holding him together. He felt his own body stretch impossibly and violently buckle into his touch, into that last majestic shove that broke down every last one of his defences and pushed him out of his body and out of this world in an explosion of colours and with a scream of beloved name on his lips: _“Ron...!”_

He didn't want another reality but this one, clinging onto the sweat-covered body of his best-mate-gone-lover, covering him from head to toe, magnificently heavy with a ton of muscles stretched protectively over him; their exhausted intertwined bodies tightly wrapped around each other, creating their very own shelter, their Universe, a pocket out of time, filled with unfathomable tenderness. Harry had never felt so raw and exposed in his life. One wrong word and he would have started howling his soul out, he could feel the heavy weight of salty tears at the edge of his long eyelashes already.

 _This was too right._  Too right and too good and too perfect to be real and surely now something, someone would come and take it away from Harry. Because his life was just  _fucked up_  that way. He couldn't be happy.  _Ever_. He was starting to believe he was cursed that way, that this was the price he had to pay for being the Chosen one. Every time he was offered a chance at happiness, just caught a glimpse of it – it was gone as if the gleeful Fate was only taunting him with shadows of things he couldn't have. Like Ron. His biggest regret ever.

He should have never let him go and when he did, it was only because he would be breaking lives left and right if he’d wanted to keep him – and Ron couldn't handle it. His redheaded Gryffindor loved his little family, he cared for his wife and hated lying to her, so he made his call. And  _broke_  Harry to bits. Harry only pulled through because he managed to pry a desperate promise out of Ron before he gave him up: a promise that he would reconsider his decision one day, when hurting his family was no longer an issue. And Harry had been waiting for his moment patiently.

He put Lily and Hugo as last of the Weasley-Potter children on that train in September with his heart beating wildly in his throat and he had been trying ever since to get his courage together for long enough to pop the question – but he was simply too terrified of the answer he might get.  _If Ron wasn't ready..._ if he would never be ready... Until tonight a few glasses of Firewhiskey did what he couldn't do with all of his Gryffindor wits about him and he had asked for the one thing his heart craved so badly – and Ron had given in and gave it gladly. Sheltered under the canopy of his muscled warm body, immersed into that mind-boggling ungodly scent of sex-induced-sweat and that particular Ron-musk that could make Harry go hard from 10 feet away, Harry still couldn't believe his luck.  _If only he could keep it..._

“Sleep,” mumbled a deep heavy voice into his ear and the soft breath made his skin prickle all over again. “You’re over-thinking... stuff again and it tickles.”

“Am not,” pouted Harry, strangely embarrassed that his best mate knew him so well. But then the bizarre meaning of Ron’s words hit him and he chuckled softly: “And if I was, how could it possibly  _tickle_ , you giant ginger git?”

“No idea... but it does,” came more of the sleepy mumbling and then a genuine wet kiss softly caressed the skin just below his earlobe and he shuddered. “Go to sleep, Harry. This might be the last bit of peace we get when our wives find out. I just might be homeless by the end of this blasted holiday, so I fully intend to make the best use of this mattress, regardless of how springy it is.”

And just like that, Harry was once again breathless with thirsty hope and mind-blowing dimensions of Ron’s simple words.

“So you heard me, when I said I’m not giving you up again?” he asked quietly, his chest aching in anticipation of the answer. The moment of hesitation seemed to stretch on forever – and then it came.

“Loud and clear,” Ron mumbled in his ear and after a surrendered sigh he repeated in a more subdued, gentler voice. “Loud and clear, my love. Been waiting for you to say it since that train left in September and you never did, so I thought perhaps you didn’t want to... didn’t want me...  _that way_ anymore. But I never really gave you up, Harry, in my heart I didn’t. How could I? You’re my world. You’re the best Christmas present ever. All mine.”

“Oh, Ron... you impossible...  _sap_ ,” Harry said in a quivering voice, thick with relief and numbing love he had no hope of ever giving credit to with mere words, so he curled up into him instead and tried to ignore those too heavy drops of salty liquid finally losing to gravity and rolling down his cheeks.

“My sap... my Ron...” he whispered, but he only got a unintelligible grumble in response and a sloppy, half sleepy kiss.  _Best kiss ever._ It meant Ron was in no hurry to get away, whatever hell there was to be paid in the morning. He was here to stay.

 _Best.Christmas.Ever_ , Harry decided with a content sigh and finally closed his eyes and let the fatigue take over.

~

The door clicked softly as Hugo Weasley tip-toed back into the narrow corridor connecting the wobbly structure of his grandparents’ home. He had seen enough. And he had tucked a blanket around the thing he saw, because in the Arctic weather they were having this winter, the body warmth would only last so long, he knew.

But not before he took a good hard look at it, at them. Boy, were there  _ever_  two people more magnificent!

If it was  _anyone_  but his dad placing a claim on Uncle Harry’s heart, Hugo would not hesitate in doing whatever it took to sabotage them. He was not the first Weasley to be sorted in Slytherin for nothing! - though Uncle George told him the Sorting hat practically begged him and his twin to wear green. He knew he could do more damage than the adults usually gave him the credit for - and get away with it, playing the innocent blue eyes and a shy smile for all they were worth.

But not like this. Not when it was his dad. He had meant it when he thought about how much he loved them both. He’d never really seen his dad's passion out in the open for anything other than fights and it was every bit mesmerising seeing his laid-back sweet-natured dad practically devour Uncle Harry stupid.  _And scorching hot!_ Merlin, it had charged him and wound him up! But not just their passion... _their love_. The way Uncle Harry looked at his dad...

Hugo now had a new goal in life: to find someone that would look at him the same way Uncle Harry looked at his dad. It was a good goal, he decided. That's what he truly wanted.

Only... he didn’t know he might have already found one. Or perhaps – had  _been_  found by one.

So it came as a complete surprise when there was a belated card delivered by an owl early Christmas morning for him alone. It wished him Merry Christmas and “ _I hope to see you soon, blue eyes..._ ” and it was merely signed by “ _Love, XXX_...”.

Nothing else. Just a beautiful majestic snow-white owl, waiting for his reply. Hugo flashed a huge brilliant smile. Intrigue and mystery, he liked  _nothing_  better. After all, he was only an 11-year-old boy. He took a quill and a scroll of parchment and went to work. This was going to be a lovely Christmas.


End file.
